Under a milky, Celtic moon and below

A blanket of creosote black, like a sheet of glistening tar

and there, beneath the willow, you will find you are buried with the dirt and aged sorrow,

Part clay, rock and roots reaching for the water

Within a stones throw from the canopy.

They say the dreams of those before us are buried there, too,

Outside of our comprehension and our capabilities.

There ar...